Black Water
by Sumi-Sprite
Summary: A bit of an experiment of interaction between my persona and Pitch Black. One-shot, may or may not continue. Enjoy! T for mild swearing.


**Black Water.**

 _A/N~ A bit fo an experiment of mine. This little ficlet is RotG of course, but it features my persona slash not-quite-self-insert. I've wanted to give this a shot for a while now, but never got around to it until now…and ironically, it's raining like crazy over on my end. XD_

 _So! Please enjoy! Don't expect to see the Guardians, it's just my persona and Pitch Black in this one._

 _This is a one-shot, though I might –MIGHT – continue it if I get enough feedback asking for me to continue._

 _NOT a romance!_

 _Enjoy!_

 _ **Now edited!**_

 _~S~_

 **~s~s~S~s~s~**

It was like clockwork. No matter what; rain or shine or sleet, he always – _always_ – went to see her.

Well, perhaps 'always' was a bit of a broad term. And rain or shine or sleet…she only ventured out of her home if the weather was bleak or flat out raining or snowing. But mostly, she came out when it rained, and would stay outside until it stopped. Or if it was simply overcast, she would venture out. But either way, she would always wait for him at the same old bench in the park.

He honestly wasn't too sure _why_ he bothered seeing the girl. Perhaps it was more of a means of self-preservation. She was a believer of his after all, so perhaps it was his way of unconsciously reassuring himself that he did, in fact, still exist.

' _Damn, my very existence is being confirmed by not but a little waif of a girl.'_ He thought sourly.

But, he digressed. A blow to his ego this might be, but she was actually pleasant to be around, if for no other reason than her sharp tongue.

And the fact that she _despised_ the Moon.

He once asked why, but she had only given the overcast sky a scathing look. He would swear the rain became heavier at her look, but he was glad of it in all honesty. The less he saw of that wretched rock, the better.

So perhaps it was this reason alone he decided to venture outside his dark lair.

Pitch Black was a man of solitude, but not by choice. Well, perhaps a little by choice, but overall, he wasn't the most sociable of people. Talking with him was difficult in and of itself, but getting him to talk back was even harder. There have been a few who have attempted to befriend him – all for selfish reasons, maybe to gain a bit of power from him – but all have failed. Pitch was, after all, a master of manipulation and seduction. He could read people and spirits like open books. It was his job to know what made them tick, what made them afraid, angry, or stupid enough to try and make a fool out of him.

The Boogeyman he may be, but he was _no_ coward.

So it was strange that he had come to find at least one person in this ever changing world who actually wanted to talk to him just for the sake of _talking_. It had been awkward at first, he would admit, but after thousands of years of silence and solitude, you find your social skills deteriorating. Even his own silver tongue betrayed him a few times; he never knew he could trip over his own words in a conversation, yet he could be as suave and devious when threatening someone.

Ah, _sentiment…_

He no longer dwelled on such things though. Instead, Pitch allowed himself to relax some. Rainy days, much like this one, were usually the only occasions that allowed him to wander outside his lair. With no Moon – or sun – showing, he was free to wander about for no apparent reason. Such strolls were rare, as a certain frost sprite enjoyed turning any form of rain into sleet or snow. Not that he much minded, but snow always meant Jack Frost was out and about, and he would _not_ risk being seen by the little upstart.

But this was not a snow day. Rather, it was a downpour, and quite late. Last he checked, it was close to six in the evening, and at any other time, he would have dismissed the idea of seeing her out so late.

But she was nothing if not strange – if not a walking case of pneumonia waiting to happen.

He ignored such thoughts though, the sharp _pitter-patter_ of raindrops hitting his black umbrella turning his buzzing thoughts into a pleasant, hazy drone. He tightened his coat around himself, the dark furred collar tickling his neck. The tight leather gloves on his hands creaked ever so slightly as his hands shifted the wrought iron umbrella handle to the other hand, booted feet clicking soundlessly on the sidewalk.

Creature of the dark he may be, but even he didn't enjoy getting cold and clammy. Not that he could say the same for his strange little friend.

All of whom was, predictably, waiting for him on a familiar bench in the Burgess park.

At first glance, one would assume her to be a ghost, or perhaps homeless. Her state of dress was obviously made for rain, and yet, one would question if she was dressing for the weather or for some kind of cutesy commercial for a rain based product.

She did not even move as he loomed over her, his wide umbrella obscuring the yellowed light of the streetlamp beside the soaked bench. Her own, much smaller, purple umbrella was propped against one shoulder, tilted back and not at all fulfilling its purpose in protecting her from the rain. Though she did have the hood of her long dark purple raincoat up, one would still question her sanity. As usual, Pitch could not be sure if she wore shorts or a skirt under her long coat – acting as more of a dress than anything, her bare legs pale as death. Her oversized plum galoshes completed the outfit – and they were visibly filled with rainwater, overflowing with excess rain.

"You are going to catch your death one of these days." He muttered.

The girl chuckled, looking up through her overgrown black bangs and plum hood at the Boogeyman.

"Hey, I've been fine so far, what's another case of the sniffles?" she said.

If any other spirit were watching, this would be a very, _very_ strange and shocking thing to witness. Not because someone was talking to Pitch Black, nor because he wasn't trying to frighten her.

They would be surprised because the girl was a teenager.

Pitch made a noncommittal sound, eying the soaked bench. After a moment of contemplation, he waved a hand over the spot beside the girl. Shadows cast by the bench writhed and crawled up over the wooden seat, forming a dry spot for the Boogeyman to perch himself. Angling his umbrella to keep most of the dim light of the streetlamp off of himself, he sat down beside her.

"Your shoes are flooded." He stated.

The teenager looked down at her feet, the water in her boots sloshing as she lifted one water-logged boot up slightly.

"Oh. I didn't even notice," she said, reaching down to dump the water out, "My feet went numb a half hour ago."

Pitch rolled his eyes. Honestly, he's only known the girl for perhaps five months now, and he has found her to be an extremely intelligent, and very logical person. And yet when it came to the cold and rain, she was practically as dim as any other teenager.

"I mean it, child, you will catch your death if you keep this up." He said.

"Not that it's any of your concern," was the smarmy reply, "And I told you my name weeks ago. Stop calling me 'child' or 'little one'."

"Oh but compared to me, you _are_ a child, and a little one." Pitch smirked.

"Asshat."

Pitch chuckled, despite the crude language. If anyone else were to call him as such, he would have throttled them. But, as it stood, he respected this girl to a degree, so she could get away with it.

"What brings you out here this time?" He inquired, "Besides the lovely weather."

He has asked the same question numerous times over their time of knowing one another. And unsurprisingly, she gave the same answer with a shrug.

"I don't know," she said, before adding more onto her usual answer, "I thought…"

Pitch raised a brow. Odd, she always just said, 'I don't know' and nothing more. But now she seemed very uncertain. He could sense the slight anxiety coming off of her, the uncertainty and confusion. Not so much as fear, but a strange sense of uncertainty and lack of understanding.

"You thought…?" Pitch urged. The girl shook her head.

"I thought I heard someone." She said. Pitch shrugged.

"Could have been a person, or a spirit. Many come out during-"

"No," she said suddenly, catching Pitch's attention, "It was…not _here_ , but somewhere else. Somewhere far away."

He blinked slowly, cat-like, "And what did you hear?"

"A voice," she said, "Many voices actually…"

"Not human?" Pitch repeated. The teenager shook her head.

"No. Not _human._ " She said. Pitch frowned.

"How would you know?" he asked.

The girl did not answer right away, and instead turned her gaze skywards. Shifting her umbrella back slightly, the rain caught and beat against her pale face like little bullets. She didn't blink, not even as a few drops struck her dark brown irises.

"I keep hearing the sea," she said, "The sea churned by a great storm. And in it, I hear someone talking to me."

Pitch was suddenly intrigued, "Oh? And who is this person?"

She shrugged, "No idea. They don't say words, but…I understand. They speak using the water…"

She blinked once, holding a hand out to catch a few raindrops in her bare, blue tinged fingers.

"Even now, I can hear them," she said, "The rain is talking to me."

Pitch frowned. If he were anyone else, he would have called the girl mad. But he knew her – to a degree anyways. She was an antisocial person, preferring to keep to herself, using any excuse she could to con her parents into letting her stay home on sunny, hot days.

He knew her more than she probably knew herself. Perhaps this is why he was so intrigued by her. He knew her type; the type of person, rare as they were, who felt so out of place in reality, so detached from their own family and friends – if they had any. He knew what she felt; boredom with humanity, disinterest and indifference towards her own kind. She didn't even feel much of anything for her own family.

Human life was boring to her. And perhaps it was this reason alone that she could see Pitch at her age – she shared a stronger connection to otherworldly beings than the boring reality of humans.

' _Or perhaps it is something else…'_ he thought.

"What does the rain say now?" he asked.

She listened for a few moments, as if trying to catch the crash of each individual drop of water from the sky. Each note, unique to one's ears, registered to her like the sharp whine of a harsh violin note. From the low, plastic notes of drops hitting leaves, to the sharper, higher smack of water hitting pavement, and even the hollow splash of puddles being pelted.

And in those notes, she heard voices.

"It says…" she started, lowering her hand, "Come home."

Pitch didn't respond, but nodded all the same. Looking down at her side, he could see a couple books tucked to her side, protected by the umbrella. Keen eyes picked out their titles along the damp spines; Call of the Cthulhu, Grimm's Fairytales, Hans Christian Anderson.

He chuckled, dark lips smirking, "You read too many fairytales."

"And yet, I'm talking to one right now." Was the dry reply.

Pitch laughed this time, low and sultry, yet lacking all signs of malicious intent. He shook his head.

"You are so strange." He commented.

She smiled widely, as if taking the comment as a compliment.

"Have you ever met Howard Lovecraft?" she asked. Pitch nodded.

"Indeed, I have," he said, "He was like you, and he could see me – though he was much older than you. How do you think he got such ideas for his books?"

"So you told him what to write?" she asked skeptically. Pitch smirked.

"No," he said, "I simply showed him where the real monster hide."

The teenager scoffed, but did not seem the least bit deterred.

"Can you show me one day?" she asked.

"Perhaps," Pitch shrugged, "Perhaps I won't need to."

A dark brow was quirked, "You say that as if you are certain I will see something."

But the Boogeyman only shrugged, silent as ever. The rain lightened over their conversation, and now only a heavy mist fell over them, the rapid fire of heavy drops on umbrellas now reduced to quiet little patters. The sky was clearing as well, and the silvery light of the Moon was starting to peer through the grey sky.

Both scowled at the sky, as if enraged it would dare to reveal such a nuisance. But it could not be helped, and Pitch sighed.

"I believe I have overstayed my welcome." He said, standing from his seat.

The girl looked up at the Boogeyman, "We can go to my house…"

Pitch shook his head, "No, it is late, and the Sandman will be out and about."

The girl scowled once more, and Pitch felt a smug sense of satisfaction. He knew she had knowledge of the Guardians, but her belief in them was not nearly as positive as most children's. She didn't much believe in them so much as acknowledge them as entities that lived in the same mythical realm as Pitch Black. And that was all they were to her; people dedicated to children and their own gain in power, only to completely forget about the children they loved the minute they grew up and stopped believing in them.

"Selfish," She had said when Pitch talked to her about them, "Greedy. Childish."

And if there was one thing Pitch knew about his strange believer, it was that she _despised_ selfish children.

She sighed, shifting so her umbrella shielded her completely. But it had long since become clear that she practically had no use for it; she was soaked to the bone, her fingers tinged blue, and her toes not doubt in the same, if not worse, condition.

Pitch shook his head, a twinge of concern seeping into his black heart.

"You should go home, child." he said.

"I will if you can call me by my actual name."

Pitch rolled his eyes, but he was not nearly as irritated as he made himself out to be. She amused him after all, why scare off good entertainment?

Or perhaps, he simply did not wish to chase off an ally, a confidant; a friend.

Pitch suddenly cocked his head, shifting his umbrella to one hand.

"Ah yes, I almost forgot…" he said.

The girl looked up at him as he dug into his coat pocket. A moment later, he produced what appeared to be a black cloth wrapped around something. Kneeling, he held it out to the teenager, grin wolfish yet harmless.

"Happy birthday." He said.

She blinked, startled, before numbly taking the cloth from the Boogeyman's hand. It wasn't exactly heavy, but it wasn't light either. Cocking her head, she carefully unwrapped the cloth, revealing what was hidden inside.

The bangle was made from some kind of stone – jade perhaps. It was black as ink, yet there were faint veins of dark purple running through it. She blinked, stunned, before looking up, only to find the Boogeyman already walking back towards his lair.

"Good night, child," He said, "And keep listening."

He vanished into the dark shadows of the forest before she could say anything. Long minutes passed with her left sitting on the bench, the rain soon stopping completely.

And by the time the Moon broke through the clouds, she was gone.

 **~s~S~s~**

Weeks later, Pitch would be wandering the streets once more on a moonless night. Invisible to the various adults coming home late from work, he paused at a newsstand and studied the various articles and happenings of the world. One caught his attention.

 _Cruise Ship off Norway devastated by storm – teenage girl of Burgess missing and assumed lost at sea._

Pitch did not even blink, nor did he seem the least bit surprised. However, he did allow himself the pang of hurt in his chest, and he allowed himself to mourn a human companion.

And yet…

Come the next rainy night, he would be walking towards a familiar bench, umbrella ringing with the heavy _pitter-patter_ of relentless rain. And someone would be there at that bench, waiting for him, wearing a familiar bangle on her bare wrist.

She wore still her long plum raincoat, and her galoshes were once more flooded, her dark hair wet and dripping out of her hood. And yet, she had changed.

He stopped in front of her, counting down the seconds before she lifted her head up.

Luminescent eyes of violet met his own.

Pitch smiled.

"Good evening, Miss Sirina."

She smiled back at her fellow spirit.

 **END.**

 **~s~s~S~s~s~**

 _A/N~ Once more, this was more of an experiment of what it would be like if my persona had ever met Pitch Black. Likely, it would be a strange yet natural meeting, no real questions of 'how' or 'why' asked. They would simply know each other based on nothing but Pitch's only form of empath, and Sirina's own acceptance of the strange people of the spirit world._

 _And to clarify, yes, Sirina (formerly Sumi) did die on a cruise in Norway when said cruise was caught in a storm – ergo how she died. But we don't get to see HOW she became a spirit. Not yet anyways. X3_

 _I might continue this, maybe add another chapter or two, but it all depends on feedback and if anyone is remotely interested in my persona._

 _So, enjoy!_

 _~S~_


End file.
